


The Summoning

by meguri_aite



Category: Natsume Yuujinchou | Natsume's Book of Friends
Genre: Case Fic, M/M, Yuletide Treat, horrible exorcists, hurt/comfort/court intrigue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 07:04:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13002447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meguri_aite/pseuds/meguri_aite
Summary: Matoba Seiji is on the floor of his living room.And he is bleeding.





	The Summoning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lady_peony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_peony/gifts).



The last stroke that completes the spell circle also crumbles the chalk piece.

Shuuichi shakes the white dust off his fingertips and straightens up to review his work. The elaborate diagram of overlapping circles and triangles has taken him most of the hour to draw, but without the right evocation it is still just a picture on his floor. He rubs his back, trying to ease the knots it in, takes a deep breath, and recites the spell — in one long exhale, with no breaks for air, the burn settling deep in his lungs. 

The final syllable that leaves his mouth electrifies the air. The circle flares up and illuminates the whole room, and Shuuichi has to shade his eyes against the brightness, blinding like stage lights. He is quite confident that he got the spell right, this time: the scroll he got in exchange for several unpaid jobs bears authentic seals of the Sato family, once famed youkai tamers who got absorbed by larger clans, leaving nothing but a handful of cryptic legends behind.

He cracks his neck, tight with the tension, but doesn’t take his eyes off the spell circle. The air has a dry, itchy quality to it — a typical side effect of many exothermic spells.

Any moment now. 

Any moment.

The air above a pair of triangles intersecting at the heart of the circle starts shimmering like a summer mirage. He watches it ripple and coalesce into something dark and fluid, constantly shifting between forms and beating to a pulse he cannot hear. Even when it starts thrashing against the wards of the circle, threatening to spill into the safe space of his living room, he doesn’t move. He doesn’t think he can — heavy triumph has turned his feet leaden and his head light.

It’s working. It’s happening, right before his eyes.

The quicksilver darkness becomes a whirlwind, rises up in a funnel until it hits the ceiling, where it recoils at the warded surface and suddenly drops. No — it falls down, like rain, but instead of splattering on the floor, the darkness pours into a human-shaped emptiness at the center of the circle, filling it like ink fills a glass container. When the last drop falls, it solidifies the whole mass, and the chaotic dance dies down, leaving only a motionless figure sprawled on the floor of Shuuichi’s apartment.

The thin buzz of electric lamps in the room is extraordinarily loud and mundane.

Shuuichi stands still, transfixed, eyes on the dark figure on his floor. Distantly, he wonders whether if he waits just a moment longer, the shape will shift again and resolve itself into something different.

It doesn’t.

He doesn’t know what a Sato family guardian spirit should look like, but he suspects it’s not what he’s seeing right now.

Bone-white skin taut over the column of the throat, exposed and vulnerable as the man’s head falls tilted to the side. Cutting lines of facial bones, half-obscured by long strands of dark hair. A paper eyepatch.

Matoba Seiji is on the floor of his living room.

And he is bleeding. 

Shuuichi curses, and it’s the sound of his own voice that shakes him out of it. He didn’t notice it right away because Matoba’s jacket is unbuttoned, folds falling open at his sides, but it’s obvious now that it’s not just expensive fabric pooling on the floor. There are stains and tears in the dress shirt, and he can glimpse skin under it, raw and red like it should never be.

Shuuichi spares a moment to deliberate the chances of this being an elaborate ruse to trick him, force him to breach the defense wards from the outside and leave himself open to attack.

With another expletive, longer and more heartfelt, Shuuichi steps over the circle line, and bends over the body, reaching for the pulse.

If this is a disguise designed to make him lower his guard, they could have chosen better. But if there is a chance it is a living person bleeding to death on his floor, he won’t take it.

Matoba’s skin is cold and damp, as if he has been dragged unconscious through an autumn forest, but there is an erratic pulse under Shuuichi’s fingers, where he has pressed them over the vein running just below the angle of the jawbone. A quick inspection reveals tears in both sides of his shirt — or of Matoba, more like it, lacerations over his rib cage, as if a pair of giant claws dug into his flesh and carried him here. Maybe they did.

The cuts are still oozing blood, but they don’t look very deep. Shuuichi doesn’t want to move Matoba and risk any internal damage, and his knowledge of first aid is hardly an adequate basis to make medical conclusions. He recalls the names of a few doctors that he might persuade to come over without making a fuss about it, but a thought stops him: what if there is something that needs immediate attention? 

Matoba is still senseless, and definitely not in any condition to voice either his preference or objections. After another moment of hesitation, Shuuichi fetches a pair of scissors. Methodically, he loosens the tie knot and unbuttons Matoba’s shirt, and then cuts through the sleeves of both his jacket and the shirt, careful not to move his limbs too much. There is no visible damage to his pants, but his knee is bent at an odd angle, so he cuts the pant leg open, too. If Matoba wants take up the issue of his ruined clothing with him, he will have to come to his senses first.

There is a motley of fresh bruises over pale skin, but none of them swollen too badly. He doesn’t see any open wounds besides the gashes over the ribcage. Matoba’s chest rises and falls in an even, if shallow rhythm. Shuuichi feels for any injuries on his scalp, but finds none that he can identify with a touch or a look.

Were they any sort of normal people — or in fact, any kind of people who didn’t have to explain the appearance of an unconscious body inside a summoning circle — calling the doctor would still have been the sensible thing to do.

But they aren’t — and even unconscious, Matoba doesn’t look like someone he should inflict on strangers — so Shuuichi lets go of the idea and brings his first aid kit from the bathroom. He pours the strongest disinfectant he has over Matoba’s wounds, and when even sizzling in his open flesh doesn’t wake him up, Shuuichi contemplates raising him up at least long enough to wrap bandages around his chest. Or would it be better just to tape a patch of gauze with antiseptic cream over the wound rather than risk moving him? 

“Why are you always such a pain in the ass,” he grumbles.

He is still considering the scrap of gauze in his hand, ready to be applied in some manner, so he misses the moment when Matoba must have opened his eyes. Which is why when a hand lands over his arm, fingers digging painfully into his skin, he is startled into speechlessness for the second time today.

“Shuuichi-san,” Matoba says, straining to rise. His voice is low and urgent, and he looks at Shuuichi with such clear intensity that it’s hard to believe that just a few second ago he was all but dead to the world. “Shuuichi-san. Don’t tell anyone.”

His feverish focus doesn’t wane, and he clutches Shuuichi’s arm in an iron grip. 

He is waiting for an answer, Shuuichi realizes. 

“Sure,” he says, finding his voice. “Not telling anyone.”

That seems to do the trick: Matoba’s head falls back, and he slumps into unconsciousness once again. His hand is still on Shuuichi’s arm, restricting movement, so he carefully removes his sleeve from its grip and gently lowers Matoba’s arm to the floor.

Bandaging it is, he decides, and sets to work.

 

He doesn’t miss it when Matoba regains consciousness again. 

It is a very quiet affair: one moment, he is sleeping, pale skin barely contrasting with the bedsheet draped over his body. The next — his good eye is open and wide awake, and while Matoba hasn’t moved an inch, his stillness is now too deliberate to pass for a helpless bedridden patient.

“Have you made up your mind about not dying yet?” Shuuichi asks. His night vigil by the bed at some point turned into day vigil and didn’t stop there, and he is low on both sleep and common courtesy.

Matoba stops scrutinizing Shuuichi’s face and takes in his surroundings. He doesn’t show any sign of surprise at what he sees — but then again, Shuuichi doesn’t expect him to.

Matoba raises himself just high enough to prop his weight on his elbow. It must have hurt, because he clenches his teeth and falls back on his pillow. Shuuichi picks up another, one which he used as a cushion between his tired back and the bedside frame, and offers it to Matoba so that he doesn’t develop neck strain trying to have a good look at anything from his bedridded position. Shuuichi doesn’t want more injuries on his watch.

Matoba accepts it wordlessly, moving only to let Shuuichi place it under his head.

“I owe you my thanks,” he says eventually.

“You can keep the pillow,” Shuuichi says. He only wants to sleep. “There is water and painkillers on the bedside table. Do you need anything else?”

The blanket moves when Matoba moves his hand to inspect his injured sides. Shuuichi patiently waits for him to say anything, but he doesn’t. He takes it for a sign of improvement: after all, the bleeding stopped some time during the night, and the current bandages will not need changing for another several hours at least.  

“I owe you, Natori-san,” he repeats. His words have the crisp quality of a bank cheque. Shuuichi sighs.

“You owe yourself not to mess it up. And if you move around too much and displace your bandages, I’m not taking any responsibility for that. I don’t have any home-made remedies for sepsis.”

Matoba blinks. “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“So, anything you need before I go crash on the couch?” he repeats. Matoba shakes his head. “Okay, then I’m off. Wake me up if you reconsider.”

Bleary-eyed, Shuuichi gives him one last look and heads off to the living room. Now that they’ve established that no one is in any rush to die, he thinks the rest can wait until after he has slept off the worst of it. 

 

When Shuuichi wakes up, the first thing he remembers is that the last time he ate was probably over 36 hours ago.

Matoba Seiji in his living space is only his second thought. But it proves to be much better at propelling him out of his makeshift bed than the first one.

Shuuichi stumbles into the bedroom, half-expecting to find it empty — maybe a bloodstained bedsheet, tossed aside, and a faint dent on his pillow. But Matoba is still where Shuuichi left him, tucked into the bed. He must be feeling better: he is half-seated against the pillows. The water and the painkiller are both gone, Shuuichi notices.

“These are some interesting inks, Natori-san,” Matoba says by way of greeting.

At first, Shuuichi doesn’t comprehend — he, for one, has never been good at waking up fast — and then he sees Matoba turn to show him his forearms, covered in black symbols.

“Ah, those. Something I learnt from Hiiragi,” he says. Youkai runes for fast healing, protection from curses, and what he suspects is their version of superstitious charms for good luck — all marks she often draws on him before he goes on dangerous assignments, or after he comes back home frayed at the edges.

Yesterday it seemed like a good idea to try them on Matoba, on the off chance they could help his injuries.

Today Shuuichi finds it difficult to explain yesterday’s thoughts. Whatever words come to his mind sound too awkward even in his head.

The guy is really a pain, he thinks, irritated.

Matoba thoughtfully traces the lines with the fingers of his other hand, and only then looks at Shuuichi. “Are they meant to suppress youkai magic?” he asks, his voice neutral. “Are these seals?”

The question catches him by surprise — and rearranges some basic assumptions in Shuuichi’s head. It has never occurred to him that Matoba might be unfamiliar with youkai runes; but in retrospect, it would be only natural, given his family history.

A dark, petty satisfaction unfurls in his chest. 

Shuuichi smiles, and leans with one shoulder against the wall. Let Matoba make his own assumptions.

“Though if you think I’m a youkai, it’s too soft-hearted of you to just patch me up and leave me free to roam your house. I’d think at least some paper chains or defensive circles would be involved.”

Shuuichi lets his grin turn sharper. He doesn’t say a word still.

Matoba gives him a long look.

“Do you have so much faith in these marks, then?” He tilts his head to the side. “Should I be offering proof of my identity? Telling you something only I would know?”

Soft-spoken, the suggestion lands heavily between them. Shuuichi’s smile falls. 

“No need,” he says as he straightens up. “But we should talk.”

“You are probably going to ask what happened to me,” Matoba says conversationally. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

“But I can. The big news in the exorcist circles is that the Matoba head is dead.”

Shuuichi isn’t lying. He received a few phone calls during the night, and even one paper doll charmed to deliver the news to him in person.

Matoba stills: an absence of movement that raises more alarms than any shadows jumping from corners could.

“I guess they could stand corrected, if you wished that,” he says. It might be a question, or a threat, or both — but a request it isn’t.

“They could,” Shuuichi agrees. “Except I remember you explicitly asking me not to tell anyone. It hasn’t been that long.”

“What reason do you have to do what I ask?”

Good question. Better still that Shuuichi had time to already ask himself just that.

“None. But I want to know how you ended up in my living room. Call it professional curiosity.”

“Your professional curiosity doesn’t stop at half-measures,” Matoba says dryly, indicating his bandages. “I guess it works in my favour, for once. But I do not have the full story, and may not have it for a while.”

And not without Shuuichi’s input — it stands to reason that his spell has played its part.

“Let’s start with what we know. Are you sure you don’t want me to contact anyone at all? Nanase-san?”

Matoba shakes his head. “She will be the first person they will watch.”

“So you knew someone was after you,” Shuuichi says, triumphant.

But Matoba is unimpressed. “There is always someone, or several someones, after me,” he says, too blase about it for Shuuichi’s taste. “That is not the surprising part.”

“If it’s not a whodunnit, then what? Is how the question?”

“People have different abilities and resources. And imagination, of course.”

It doesn’t escape Shuuichi’s attention that it is not a direct answer. So be it, for now. “What do you want to do, then? Unless moving in with me is your clever plan.”

“Tempting as it is, no,” Matoba says without missing a beat. “I do not plan to impose on your hospitality much more than I already have.”

“Where do you plan to go, if you don’t want anyone’s help?” Shuuichi doesn’t hide his scepticism. “If you leave the apartment only to bleed to death in the nearest ditch, I’ll strangle you myself, right here and now, to make it quicker.”

“I need a way to go back, on my own terms — but you have a point. Bleeding on the doorstep is not part of the plan.”

“Do you even have a plan?” Matoba doesn’t elaborate. Shuuichi sighs. “Look, let’s make a deal.”

“A deal.” That gets him Matoba’s full attention. Figures.

“I want to know the full story. And for that, I’m willing to help you to piece it together. Think of it as an investment for future returns — I’ll tell you what I think may be related to this case, and provide back up for what you need to do to get the rest of the information. Up to and including helping you get back into the mansion, though I hope it’s not just so that you can bring flowers to your own funeral. But once you have all the puzzle pieces, I get to know them, too.”

“Not even billing the clan for all the damages?” Matoba raises an eyebrow. “For your own sake, I hope you are more self-serving when negotiating the terms of your other deals.”

“Tell that to me when you have the full picture.” Shuuichi shrugs his words off. “I won’t let a good chance to get my hands on new spells slip.” Not to mention the insights into the power play behind the curtains.

“Of course not,” Matoba says. “In this case, could we perhaps discuss the mechanics of the spell that brought me here?”

Shuuichi opens his mouth to agree, but stops to reconsider when a thought that he has effectively ignored since waking up forcefully reasserts itself. “As soon as I’ve ordered in something to eat. I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t say no to being spoonfed chicken soup myself at this point.”

  
  


Three days later, Shuuichi steps inside the Matoba mansion, his shiki in tow.

The windows are draped with dark curtains, the burning incense heavy in the air. A steady trickle of soberly dressed people stream through: exorcists coming to pay their respect to the clan, express their condolences and exchange the latest rumors on power succession. Not necessarily in that order.

He nods at a few familiar faces, but doesn’t engage in small talk: first, the due respects.

Nanase-san is officially out of the race for succession; she comes from a minor branch of the family, and early on dismissed her interest in anything but continuing her job of supporting the clan by supporting the family head. As there are no surviving members of the immediate family, she was the natural choice for interim head: efficient and impartial enough to keep things running until the waters have calmed.

“Nanase-san,” he says with a deep bow. A step behind, his two companions silently acknowledge her with small bows of their own. “My condolences.”

Nanase-san’s posture is impeccable, the line of her mouth as uncompromising as ever, but he can see the redness to her eyes when she looks him straight in the face. “Young Natori. Thank you for coming to see us. And with full entourage, too.”

“My family cannot boast large numbers, as you know,” he says. “That must be why my shiki sometimes feel compelled to fill this role. Please excuse their eagerness.”

Her lips twitch. “Well, you must be a good master, to inspire such loyalty in your servants,” she says.

“Natori-sama takes good care of us.”

Shuuichi’s heart drops like a stone tied to his neck as his companion steps forward with a graceful bow. His face is inscrutable under a plain wooden mask, framed by a rich peony headdress that falls in pale garlands over his shoulders and back. 

“How lucky for you,” Nanase says evenly, and turns her gaze back to Shuuichi. “Is this one new?”

“Fairly new, yes, and I don’t employ it often yet. It’s a bit — wilful,” he says with a strained smile.

“Powerful brats are always such a handful,” she says without much sympathy. “Best of luck.”

She doesn’t spare a second glance at his entourage. Shuuichi nods and begs his leave.

“I thought we agreed this is the part where I do all the talking,” Shuuichi says pleasantly once they are out of earshot. 

His companion slows, forcing him to slow his gait as well. “I have embarrassed my master in my haste to speak in his defense,” he says, offering a deep bow. The peony garlands of his headdress slide with a soft rustle over the light fabric of his haori. “I have spoken out of turn.”

Shuuichi looks at the humble line of the back gracefully angled towards him in obsequios apology, and feels quiet despair rise like a headache. To his other side, Hiiragi is silent and inscrutable, but he gets a feeling she judges them both.

With a defeated sigh, he resumes his social circuit around the room.

The nearest cluster of faces are semi-familiar: Matoba affiliates. 

They fall quiet as soon as they spot him: a perfectly reasonable reaction to an outsider. Not particularly welcoming in the best of times, their politeness is further strained by the reason for today’s gathering.

“My condolences for the loss in your family,” Shuuichi says somberly. Knowing to interpret the term broadly, several of the men nod their heads in acknowledgement. One of them, however — noticeably younger and poorer at impulse control — bites off, “What of it? Are you here to cele- ” 

Shuuichi doesn’t hear the rest of the sentence; the young man is quickly silenced by one of his seniors. Holding him back by the elbow, the older clansman apologizes. “You must excuse him. He is speaking out of grief.”

“And how many people here could you say that about?” the young man spits with venom, jerking his arm out of the hold. “Just look at them, descending like vultures.”

Shuuichi watches rage and contempt flicker on the man’s face but doesn’t comment, instead allowing the group to save their face by bidding them goodbye and moving on.

“He is right, you know,” he says eventually, keeping his voice low enough that it won’t reach any of the other guests. There is no accounting for invisible youkai, of course, if anyone set them loose to snoop around, but he relies on Hiiragi to take care of those. She is watchful and swift, good at blending in and even better at listening.

“Well, of course. Your average interregnum scrape for power and information. No one concerned for their position would miss a chance to make away with the most they can, while they can.” The wooden mask dulls the voice, but unfortunately does very little to hide the derision in it. 

“I meant what he said about the young man,” Shuuichi says.

“Oh, him? Recent addition. Threw his lot in with the clan hoping to cut all association with his ancestors, who messed around with things they couldn’t control. Must be frustrated now, to be tied to another the clan he thinks is crumbling.”

Shuuichi hums noncommittally and walks on. If that’s Matoba’s interpretation of choice, then it’s not Shuuichi’s job to divest him of it. 

The angry young exorcist was absolutely right about the majority of the assembly, of course.

“Have your heard how he died?” asks a woman with bright-red lips, pursed with barely held excitement. A medium-rank exorcist of an old family, he remembers. Her hand is clamped onto Shuuichi’s sleeve, and with every word she pulls him closer, inch by inch. Her youkai, manifested into full visibility two steps to her left, is a snake-charmer, with slit eyes on a scaled face and a two-headed serpent draped around its neck. There is a flute in each of its four hands.

“I haven’t,” he says, trying to think of a way to extract his sleeve and himself from this clinch. “I assumed it was the family curse?”

The woman nods several times. “They say the cursed youkai swallowed him whole. Didn’t even leave bones to bury. They say Matoba’s urn is  _ empty _ ,” she hisses out a delighted whisper. 

Shuuichi displays honest surprise, at that.

“That must mean the dues are paid, and the curse is broken,” she muses on, speaking practically into his face now. “And that, in turn, means the family no longer has the curse-generated power to tap into. And if they want to stay at the top, it means they will have to open to wider alliances.”

She releases his sleeve as she finishes her statement, so abruptly that Shuuichi involuntarily takes a step back. “That’s possible. But if so, what does that have to do with me?”

“They are not the only ones who’ll be on the lookout for allies now.” Her lips tug upwards at the corners. Like master, like servant, he thinks. 

A flowery, slippery excuse is ready to fall off the tip of his tongue, but someone beats him to it.

“My master values his independence.”

“ _ Botan _ ,” Shuuichi snaps with an affront of a weary exorcist with a really ill-mannered shiki. “Don’t make me teach you a lesson.”

“Whatever master desires,” ‘Botan’ accepts the reprimand with a demure nod. Shuuichi’s hands itch with a genuine desire to wring that neck.

“Your servant speaks true,” the woman says, untroubled in the least. “Natori-san, your reputation as a loner is well-known — but I hope you will remember my offer, should you reconsider.”

Shuuichi assures her that he will, and hastily beats his retreat.

“What was that?” He is close to hissing himself. “Is this a good place and time to display concern about my allegiances?”

The wooden mask, of course, doesn’t show any signs of remorse. “The man is not here,” he says, simply. 

Shuuichi swallows this information, and walks on.

 

He exchanges shallow pleasantries and obligatory condolences with group after group, but as Matoba remains silent as he shadows his every step, Shuuichi moves on to the next one. And to the next. 

This might prove to be as exhausting as televised networking events for his dayjob, Shuuichi thinks as he fixes his face in another meaningless expression. 

Except with attempted murder for its scheduled entertainment.

At least he doesn’t have to think long before responding to all the speculation and rumors surrounding the event. Thinking about an alternative scenario, one where he’d have had to guess if any of the theories were true, isn’t necessary at the moment. 

They are on their fifth — sixth? — round, and Shuuichi is seriously starting to question the sanity of the plan. Not that he hasn’t before, but Matoba, for all his faults, gave an impression that he knew what he was doing. But if his victim — sorry, culprit — of the day isn’t among the attendees, it would make more sense to return and try their luck at the next exorcist gathering.

“He’s here,” whispers Matoba, and the world regains a sharp focus. 

Shuuichi gives a sweeping look around the assembly, as if he just lost sight of someone in the crowd, as he tries to pin down the likely candidate. He considers a group to the left — two exorcists he hasn’t seen before, middle-aged and clearly not the biggest social butterflies.

“No, to the right. People in black suits.”

He sees the group almost immediately — half a dozen people, all dressed similarly. He had actually caught a glimpse of them before, but had dismissed them as security or admin, because they don’t look like they are actually here to participate. He suppresses a sigh: Matoba could have warned him he might need to talk to the security staff. Why is even Matoba’s target so hard to accommodate.

Still, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.

“Excuse me,” he says once he approaches them, apologetic and confused. “Sorry, I was wondering — have you seen Sakurai-san? I thought he went in this direction?”

With the patiently braced faces of people who are too polite to tell him it’s not their job to answer his queries, the men ask him to describe who he’s looking for. Diligently, Shuuichi sets off to give as non-specific a description as he can possibly get away with — “very respectable, an upstanding member of society. A stern face — recently lost his son, what a tragic thing to happen to anyone, let alone someone so talented. What he was dressed in? Why, traditional Japanese clothes, of course, Sakurai-san is a man of utmost propriety. I was saying, lost his son, that man, which is why he would absolutely be here today, too, of course ” — widely gesturing to illustrate his point. 

At some point, he notices Hiiragi has disappeared. Immediately he launches off on another inane tangent, wildly making up details of Sakurai-san’s life, clutching at his audience for emphasis. Her disappearance means that Matoba is now on the offensive. Her job is the groundwork, Shuuichi’s part is misdirection.

The key to any trick is simple: make sure the audience looks elsewhere. And Shuuchi isn’t too bad at holding the audience’s attention.

He doesn’t know who Matoba’s target is until he sees a square of thinnest silk — in a shade of brown carefully chosen to mesh seamlessly with wooden floorboards —  unfurl on the floor, a step behind one of the men’s feet. He doesn’t look in any way remarkable, same bland suit and bland expression as everyone in the group, but Hiiragi has to have taken her cue from Matoba, and placed the silk cloth as close to the target as she dared.

The rest, Shuuichi can help with. “Oh, there he is,” he exclaims. “Sakurai-san!” He waves enthusiastically at the crowd, and if he accidentally elbows one of the men in a rush to get his esteemed friend’s attention, they are too polite to call him out on that. 

Pushed, the man takes a step backwards, which places him right in the middle of the spell circle.

For that’s what the silk cloth is — the markings, done in ink barely a shade darker than the cloth, are hardly noticeable, but Shuuichi knows firsthand that they come together to mirror an image once drawn on his living room floor, in everything but an additional layer of symbols around its perimeter. An improvement suggested by Matoba, who had otherwise idly watched from his vantage point on the bed as Shuuchi traced the picture on the silk. (It was that, or risk re-opening Matoba’s wounds, and Shuuichi would have none of that again.)

He hears a short, sharp incantation from his left, and the man freezes mid-motion. 

Matoba’s short term paralysis spell seems to be working nicely.

Next to him, Matoba starts the chant. His projection is clear, even if his voice is still muffled by the wooden mask. A couple of the people in suits give Shuuichi’s ‘shiki’ a sideways glance and give them both a wide berth, but don’t think to look under their feet. The only man who recognizes the spell and its caster is trapped inside the circle, which has been charmed to keep everything within its bounds still. 

It’s still hard to think of him as anything other than ‘one of the men in suits’: his face defies description almost as much Shuuichi’s imaginary acquaintance Sakurai-san — but the look he gives Matoba is one of pure, undisguised loathing. The muscles in his jaw move, but it doesn’t open: the spell holds him well and truly bound.

The light of the summoning spell, when it flares up, is potent enough to illuminate half the assembly hall. But by the time everyone’s attention turns towards them, the incantation is already complete.

And no one is looking at Shuuichi, swept to the side and lost in the crowd, or his ‘shiki’, who has demurely resumed a place by his side.

Instead, everyone’s eyes are trained on the man standing still as a pillar of salt in the middle of a glowing tempest. 

What happens next, Shuuichi sees very well. But he’ll be damned if he can explain it.

What happens next is this:

The air above the man tears open, spitting out a mass of darkness that shapes itself into something wraith-like, all bone wings and sharp claws and too many limbs that bend in ways painful to look at. No wonder no bestiary gave a good account of its appearance: it keeps shifting, limbs sinuously flowing one into another, what was a hind leg is now a tail is now a ridge along the spine. 

The Sato family guardian. A monster leashed by one family for an eternity of servitude.

Immobilized as he is, the man doesn’t see the wraith until it lands in a crouch in front of him, right in his line of sight. He doesn’t seem surprised, but it is hard to tell with a man whose facial muscles are paralyzed to that extent, Shuuichi muses.

He doesn’t know for sure what Matoba has summoned the monster for. He assumes it has to be some bloody display of power signifying the Matoba head’s return from the dead.

It is a bit distasteful and needlessly violent. On the other hand, so were the gashes over Matoba’s rib cage.

Whatever Matoba’s designs might have been, the wraith doesn’t seem to be paying them any mind. 

It circles around the man, careful not to touch the borders defined by the spell circle. In an eerie likeness to an oversized skeletal mutt, it sniffs him and lets out a growl so low that Shuuichi feels its reverberations in his teeth.

And then the wraith unfolds its wings — dark tendons, translucent scales and clanking finger bones strung together into a morbid net — and wraps its tail around the man’s body, a thick bony tail that grows long and longer and thinner as it extends with every coil around the man’s chest. With a screech like a wordless warcry, it soars up, each flap of the wings taking them higher and closer to the hall’s ceiling, which is pretty high for a building but still finite.

They don’t reach it. Midway, the air rips open again, and swallows them whole, beast and man. 

The silence in the hall is so confused it suggests collective head injury.

“Thank you everyone for coming to my funeral,” Matoba says as he steps out of the crowd. He is no longer wearing the mask or the haori, and his quiet voice carries clear in the silence. “But this event could stand to be a little better-planned, don’t you think?”

That’s when the screaming starts.

 

Some indeterminate amount of time later, Shuuichi finds himself in Matoba’s private quarters, cradling a glass of something so expensive it probably warrants the word vintage.

Nanase-san had shoved the bottle into his hand as she shoved the rest of him into the room with an impatient “Stay out of the way for now, unless you want half the clansmen on your tail,” and slammed shut the door, sealing it with charms for good measure.

That was a while ago. 

He had been whisked very promptly and efficiently away — classic Nanase-san; he barely had enough time to notice which groups seemed disappointed, and which dissipated lest they should be seen being disappointed together — and this room is far enough from the assembly hall that the sound of commotion doesn’t reach him. But it is not far enough for him to stop wondering what is happening on the other side of the door.

He hopes Nanase-san didn’t forget to tell Matoba she all but locked him up here. Hiiragi’s orders were to disappear from the mansion as soon as she laid out the circle, to minimize chances of association. And, Shuuichi ponders, summoning her now to break him out of Matoba’s rooms somehow doesn’t seem like the most politically sound move he could make. Under the circumstances, that is. 

So he does what anyone in possession of good liquor and too much time and apprehension would do. He drinks.

When the door finally opens to let Matoba in, Shuuichi is absolutely, definitely not sloshed.

“I am not sloshed,” he says, enunciating every word clearly. “I’ve barely had a glass of that thing.”

“Did you really let Nanase bribe you with liquor?” Matoba says, amused. He too must be worn-out, which is why there are soft, tired lines on his face. 

He is still wounded, Shuuichi thinks. “Your injuries are probably worse now,” he says, pained by the thought that his bedside efforts are likely gone to waste.

“I wasn’t brawling, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Matoba huffs, but he favours his left side as he, too, sits on the floor, facing Shuuichi. 

“I wasn’t worried.” He has another, better explanation prepared, but Matoba doesn’t seem very interested in hearing it. Shuuichi lets it slide, and instead watches him shift and try to find a comfortable sitting position. But Shuuichi’s guess is likely spot-on: soon enough, he gives up, sighs and stretches out fully on the floor instead and closes his eyes. 

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Shuuichi is curious, but not so much that he’d deny an injured man his rest. “Or are you too tired?”

Matoba cracks open his good eye and turns to give him an amused look. “Really, I wonder what could give the Matobas notoriety about being poor at keeping their word,” he says, shifting so that his face is turned fully to Shuuichi. The eyepatch crinkles but doesn’t slide off. “I am ready to meet my end of the bargain anytime.”

Shuuichi doesn’t waste his breath commenting on Matoba’s innate love for theatrics. He goes straight to the point instead. “Who was that man? He didn’t look like he was an exorcist — was he disguised as well?”

“No, he looked like exactly what he was. A clan affiliate and employee, but not an exorcist. He was in charge of some financial projects for the house. I suspected he had an agenda of his own, but given his role, I assumed it had to be something monetary.”

“You suspected the man of fraud?” Shuuichi says incredulously. “Why didn’t you just fire him?”

“A large clan is a system of checks and balances. What you do to one branch, no matter how unimportant, might pull a thread that runs to the other end of it and shakes the whole tree. A more controlled approach makes things more — predictable.”

“So you couldn’t. For political reasons,” Shuuchi sums up, disproportionately entertained. “Were you planning to let him rob you before you went after him?”

“I was going to give him perfectly good opportunities to try. I thought I was ready for anything he might spring on me, but I was thinking more of funds siphoning, not the summoning of overpowered youkai servants believed to have been  _ lost _ . I was not aware he had any spiritual power at all.”

“He was a Sato,” Shuuichi says, connecting the dots. “The family who took over the Satos — they were  _ your _ people.”

“Indirectly,” Matoba confirms. “They were absorbed by another family first, who later pledged allegiance to us. Combine that with a gap in archive-keeping a few generations back, and I didn’t even know the man had a lineage worth hearing about.”

“So he obviously didn’t keep his family name, or brag about any old family spells. Figures.” Shuuichi rubs a hand over his face — now that the excitement of smuggling heirs and public punishments is wearing off, his lack of sleep is catching up with him. “I wonder where that youkai took him, though.”

“I won’t presume he’s dead,” Matoba says. “My guess is that youkai is conditioned to protect any surviving members of that bloodline, and if the man is clever enough, he will find better uses for such a servant in the future. But my people are already looking into his things: if more of their family scrolls have been retained, we’ll find them. And even if we don’t, a reasonably capable exorcist can find his way around a summoning he knows how to invoke. Counter-spells can be arranged.”

“Don’t you counter-spell me. I want to see the rest of the Sato scrolls if you uncover them. That was part of the deal.”

“Of course,” Matoba agrees. 

No one says anything else for a while. Matoba closes his eyes again. Shuuichi thinks about shiki contracts, and dark shadows under Matoba’s eyes, and loyalty. His thoughts tangle together, sleepy and slow.

He is almost convinced Matoba has fallen asleep when he speaks up.

“I understand it wasn’t part of the deal, originally — your bargaining leaves a lot of room for improvement, did I tell you? —  but if you need a place, say, to recover from an eventful day. You could stay here. I  would only be paying back the favour.”

Shuuichi snorts, not deigning to give a proper answer. He also lets his thoughts trickle away between his fingers, and closes his eyes, and drifts off to sleep, his back still against wall.

 


End file.
